Frank Harris - "Elder Conklin and Other Stories"

Charles Neville Buck - "The Call of the Cumberlands"

Lord Byron - "The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 4"

Anonymous - "The London and Country Brewer"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Shrieking Pit

A >> Arthur J. Rees >> The Shrieking Pit




"There is no certainty that Ronald is the son of Sir James Penreath,"
said Colwyn thoughtfully. "Printed descriptions of people are very
misleading."

"Exactly my contention," replied Sir Henry eagerly. "I told Galloway
that the best way to settle the point was to let the young lady see the
prisoner. The police are acting on the suggestion. Mr. Oakham is coming
down with Miss Willoughby and her aunt from London by the afternoon
train. They will go straight to Heathfield, where they will see Ronald
before his removal to Norwich gaol. Superintendent Galloway is driving
over from here in a taxicab to meet them at the station and escort them
to the lock-up, and I am going with him. It is a frightful ordeal for
two highly-strung ladies to have to undergo, and my professional skill
may be needed to help them through with it. I shall suggest that they
return here with me afterwards, and stay for the night at the hotel,
instead of returning to London immediately. The night's rest will serve
to recuperate their systems after the worry and excitement."

"No doubt," said Colwyn, who began to see how Sir Henry Durwood had
built up such a flourishing practice as a ladies' specialist.

Sir Henry, having imparted his information, promised to acquaint him
with the result of the afternoon's interview, and bustled out of the
breakfast room in response to the imperious signalling of his wife's
eye.

It was after dinner that evening, in the lounge, that Sir Henry again
approached Colwyn, smoking a cigar, which represented the amount of a
medical man's fee in certain London suburbs. But as Sir Henry counted
his fees in guineas, and not in half-crowns, he could afford to be
luxurious in his smoking. He took a seat beside the detective and,
turning upon him his professionally portentous "all is over" face,
remarked:

"There is no mistake. Ronald is Sir James Penreath's son."

"Miss Willoughby identified him, then?"

"It was a case of mutual identification. Mr. Penreath, to give him his
proper name, was brought under escort into the room where we were
seated. He started back at the sight of Miss Willoughby--I suppose he
had no idea whom he was going to see--and said, 'Why, Constance!' The
poor girl looked up at him and exclaimed, 'Oh, James, how could you?'
and burst into a flood of tears. It was a very painful scene."

"I have no doubt it was--for all concerned," was Colwyn's dry comment.
"Why did Miss Willoughby greet her betrothed husband in that way, as
though she were convinced of his guilt? What does she know about the
case?"

"Superintendent Galloway prepared her mind for the worst during the ride
from the station to the gaol. She asked him a number of questions, and
he told her that there was no doubt that the man she was going to see
was the man who had murdered Mr. Glenthorpe."

"I suspected as much. But what else transpired during the interview? How
did Penreath receive Miss Willoughby's remark?"

"Most peculiarly. He seemed about to speak, then checked himself with a
half smile, looked down on the ground, and said no more. Superintendent
Galloway signed to the policemen to remove him, and we withdrew. The
interview did not last more than a minute or so."

"Miss Willoughby did not see him alone, then?"

"No. Galloway told her that she would not be permitted to see him
alone."

"And nothing more was said on either side while Penreath was in the
room?"

"Nothing. Penreath's attitude struck me as that of a man who did not
wish to speak. He appeared self-conscious and confused, like a man with
a secret to hide."

"Perhaps his silence was due to pride. After Miss Willoughby's tactless
remark he may have thought there was no use saying anything when his
sweetheart believed him guilty." Colwyn spoke without conviction; the
memory of Penreath's demeanour to him after his arrest was too fresh in
his mind.

"You wrong Miss Willoughby. She is only too anxious to catch at any
straw of hope. When she learnt that you had been making some
investigations into the case she expressed an anxiety to see you. She
and her aunt yielded to my advice, and returned here to spend the night
at the hotel before going back to London. As they did not feel inclined
to face the ordeal of public scrutiny after the events of the day they
are dining in private, and they have asked me to take you to their room
when you are at liberty. Mr. Oakham has gone to Norwich, where he will
stay for some days to prepare the defence of this unhappy young man, but
he is coming here in the morning to see the ladies before they depart
for London. He asked me to tell you that he would like to see you also."

"I shall be glad to see him, and Miss Willoughby as well. Have the
ladies asked you your opinion of the case?"

"Naturally they did. I gave them the best comfort I could by hinting
that in my opinion Mr. Penreath is not in a state of mind at present in
which he can be held responsible for his actions. I did not say anything
about epilepsy--the word is not a pleasant one to use before ladies."

"Did you tell them this in front of Galloway?"

"Certainly not. A professional man in my position cannot be too careful.
I am glad now that I was so circumspect about this matter in my dealings
with the police--very glad indeed. It was my duty to tell Mr. Oakham,
and I did so. He was interested in what I told him--exceedingly so, and
was anxious to know if I had given my opinion of Penreath's condition to
anybody else. I mentioned that I had told you--in confidence."

"And it was then, no doubt, that Mr. Oakham said he would like to see
me. I fancy I gather his drift. And now shall we visit Miss Willoughby?"

"Yes, I should say the ladies will be expecting us," said Sir Henry,
looking at a fat watch with jewelled hands which registered golden
minutes for him in Harley Street. He beckoned a waiter, and asked him to
conduct them to Mrs. Brewer's sitting-room. The waiter led them along a
corridor on the first floor, tapped deferentially, opened the door
noiselessly in response to a feminine injunction to "come in," waited
for the gentlemen to enter, and then closed the door behind them.

Two ladies rose to greet them. One was small and overdressed, with
fluffy hair and China blue eyes. She carried some knitting in her hand,
and a pet dog under her arm. Colwyn had no difficulty in identifying her
with the frequent photographs of Mrs. Brewer which appeared in Society
and illustrated papers. She belonged to a class of women who took
advantage of the war to advertise themselves by philanthropic
benefactions and war work, but she was able to distance most of her
competitors for newspaper notoriety by reason of her wealth. Her niece,
Miss Constance Willoughby, was of a different type. She was tall and
graceful, with dark eyes and level brows. A straight nose and a firm
chin indicated that their possessor was not lacking in a will of her
own. Her manner was self-possessed and assured--a trifle too much so for
a sensitive girl in the circumstances, Colwyn thought. Then he
remembered having read in some paper that Miss Willoughby was one of the
leaders of the new feminist movement which believed that the war had
brought about the complete emancipation of English woman-hood, and with
it the right to possess and display those qualities of character which
hitherto were supposed to be peculiarly masculine. It was perhaps owing
to her advocacy of these claims that Miss Willoughby felt herself called
upon to display self-possession and self-control at a trying time.
Colwyn, appraising her with his clear eye as Sir Henry introduced him,
found himself speculating as to the reasons which had caused Penreath
and her to fall in love with one another.

"Please sit down, Mr. Colwyn," said Mrs. Brewer, resuming a comfortable
arm-chair in front of the fire, and adjusting the Pekingese on her lap.
"I am so grateful to you for coming to see us in this unconventional
way. I have been so anxious to see you! Everybody has heard of you, Mr.
Colwyn--you're so famous. It was only the other day that I was reading a
long article about you in some paper or other. I forget the name of the
paper, but I remember that it said a lot of flattering things about you
and your discoveries in crime. It said----Oh, you naughty, naughty
Jellicoe." This to the dog, which had become entangled in the skein of
wool on her lap, and was making frantic efforts to free itself. "Bad
little doggie, you've ruined this sock, and some poor soldier will have
to go with bare feet because you've been naughty! Are you a judge of
Pekingese, Mr. Colwyn? Don't you think Jellicoe a dear?"

"Do you mean Sir John Jellicoe, Mrs. Brewer?"

"Of course not! I mean my Pekingese. I've named him after our great
gallant commander, because it is through him we are all able to sleep
safe and sound in our beds these dreadful nights."

"Sir John Jellicoe ought to feel flattered," said Colwyn gravely.

"Yes, I really think he should," replied Mrs. Brewer innocently.
"Jellicoe is not a pretty name for a dog, but I think we should all be
patriotic just now. But tell me what you think of this dreadful case,
Mr. Colwyn. I am so frightfully distressed about it that I really don't
know what to do. How could Mr. Penreath do such a shocking thing? Why
didn't he go back to the front, if he had to kill somebody, instead of
hiding away from everybody and murdering this poor old man in this wild
spot? Such a disgrace to us all!"

"Mr. Penreath has been in the Army, then?" asked Colwyn.

"Of course. Didn't you know? He was in Mesopotamia, but was sent to the
West Front recently, where he won the D.S.O. for an act of great
gallantry under heavy fire, but was shortly afterwards invalided out of
the Army. It was in all the papers at the time."

"You forget, my dear lady, that Mr. Penreath did not disclose his full
name while he was staying here," interposed Sir Henry solemnly. "I
myself was in complete ignorance of his identity until last night."

"Why, of course--you told me this afternoon. My poor head! Whatever
induced Mr. Penreath to do such a thing as to conceal his name? So
common and vulgar! What motive could he have? What do you think his
motive was, Mr. Colwyn?"

"I think, Aunt Florence, as your nerves are bad, that you had better
permit me to talk to Mr. Colwyn," said Miss Willoughby, speaking for the
first time. "Otherwise we shall get into a worse tangle than the
Pekingese."

"I am sure I shall be only too relieved if you will talk to Mr. Colwyn,"
rejoined the elder woman. "My head is really not equal to the task--my
nerves are so frightfully unstrung."

Mrs. Brewer returned to the task of untangling the dog from the knitting
wool, and the girl faced the detective earnestly.

"Mr. Colwyn," she said, "I understand you have been investigating this
terrible affair. Will you tell me what you think of it? Do you believe
that Mr. Penreath is guilty? You need not fear to be frank with me."

"I will not hesitate to be so. I shall be pleased to give you my
conclusions about this case--so far as I have formed any--but I should
be greatly obliged if you would answer a few questions first. That might
help me to clear up one or two points on which I am at present in doubt,
and make my statement to you clearer."

"Ask me any questions you wish."

"Thank you. In the first place, how long is it since Mr. Penreath
returned from the front, invalided out of the Army?"

"About two months ago."

"Was he wounded?"

"No. I understand that he broke down through shell-shock, and the
doctors said that it would be some time before he completely recovered.
I do not know the details. Mr. Penreath was very sensitive and reticent
about the matter, and so I forbore questioning him."

Colwyn nodded sympathetically.

"I understand. Have you noticed much difference in his demeanour since
he returned from the front?"

"That question is a little difficult to answer," said the girl,
hesitating.

"I can quite understand how you feel about it. My motive in asking the
question is to see if we can ascertain why Penreath came to Norfolk
under a concealed name, and then wandered over to this place, Flegne, in
an almost penniless condition, when he had plenty of friends who would
have supplied his needs, and, I should say, had money of his own in the
bank, for it is quite certain that he would be in receipt of an
allowance from his father. He acted most unusually for a young man of
his standing and position, and I am wondering if shell-shock left him in
that restless, unsettled, reckless condition which is one of its worst
effects."

"I have seen so little of him since he returned from the front that it
is difficult for me to answer you," said the girl, after a pause. "He
went down to Berkshire to his father's place on his return, and stayed
there a month. Then he came to London, and we met several times, but
rarely alone. I am very deeply engaged in war work, and was unable to
give him much of my time. When I did see him he struck me as rather
moody and distrait, but I put that down to his illness, and the fact
that he must naturally feel unhappy at his forced inaction. My friends
paid him much attention and sent him many invitations--in fact, they
would have made quite a fuss of him if he had let them--and, of course,
he had friends of his own, but he didn't seem to want to go anywhere,
and he told me once or twice that he wished people would let him alone.
I pointed out to him that he had his duty to do in Society as well as at
the front, but he said he disliked Society, particularly in war-time.
About three weeks ago he told me one night at a dance that he was sick
of London, and thought he would be better for a change of air. He was
looking rather pale, and I agreed he would be the better for a change. I
asked him where he intended going, and he said he thought he would try
the east coast--he didn't say what part. He left me with the intention
of going away the next day. That was the last I saw of him--until
to-day."

"You got no letter from him?"

"I did not hear from him--nor of him--until I saw his description
published in the London newspapers as that of a criminal wanted by the
police."

Miss Willoughby uttered the last sentence in some bitterness, with a
sparkle of resentment in her eyes. It was apparent that she considered
she had been badly treated by her lover, and that his arrest had
hardened, instead of softening, her feelings of resentment.

"I am much obliged to you for answering my questions, Miss Willoughby,"
said the detective. "As I told you before, they are not dictated by
curiosity, but in the hope of eliciting some information which would
throw light on this puzzling case."

"A puzzling case! You consider it a puzzling case, Mr. Colwyn?" She
glanced at him with a more eager and girlish expression than he had yet
seen on her face. "I understood from the police officer that there was
no room for doubt in the matter. Sir Henry Durwood shares the police
view." She turned a swift questioning glance in the specialist's
direction.

Sir Henry caught the glance, and felt it incumbent upon himself to utter
a solemn commonplace.

"I beg of you not to raise false hopes in Miss Willoughby's breast, Mr.
Colwyn," he said.

"I have no intention of doing so," returned the detective. "On the other
hand, I protest against everybody condemning Penreath until it is
certain he is guilty. And now, Miss Willoughby, I will tell you what I
have discovered."

He entered upon a brief account of his investigations at the inn, with
the exception that he omitted the visit of Peggy to the murdered man's
chamber and her subsequent explanation. Miss Willoughby listened
attentively, and, when he had concluded, remarked:

"Do you think the wax and tallow candle-grease dropped in the room
suggests the presence of two persons?"

"I feel sure that it does."

"And who do you think the other was?"

"It is not yet proved that Penreath was one of them."

She flushed under the implied reproof, and hurriedly added:

"Have you acquainted the police with your discoveries, Mr. Colwyn?"

"I have, and I am bound to say that they attach very little importance
to them."

"Do you propose to go any further with your investigations?"

"I would prefer not to answer that question until I have seen Mr. Oakham
to-morrow."



CHAPTER XIV


When Colwyn went in to lunch the following day after a walk on the
front, he found Sir Henry awaiting him in the lounge with a visitor
whose identity the detective guessed before Sir Henry introduced him.

"This is Mr. Oakham," said Sir Henry. "I have told him of your
investigation into this painful case which has brought him to Norfolk."

"An investigation in which you helped," said Colwyn, with a smile.

"I am afraid it would be stretching the fable of the mouse and the lion
to suggest that I was able to help such a renowned criminal investigator
as yourself," returned Sir Henry waggishly. "When Mr. Oakham learnt that
you had been investigating this case he expressed a strong desire to see
you."

"I am returning to London by the afternoon express, Mr. Colwyn," said
the solicitor. "I should be glad if you could spare me a little of your
time before I go."

"Certainly," replied Colwyn, courteously. "It had better be at once, had
it not? You have not very much time at your disposal."

"If it does not inconvenience you," replied Mr. Oakham politely. "But
your lunch----"

"That can wait," said the detective. "I feel deeply interested in this
case of young Penreath."

"Mr. Oakham saw him this morning before coming over," said Sir Henry.
"He is quite mad, and refuses to say anything. Therefore, we have come
to the conclusion----"

"Really, Sir Henry, you shouldn't have said that." Mr. Oakham's tone was
both shocked and expostulatory.

"Why not?" retorted Sir Henry innocently. "Mr. Colwyn knows all about
it--I told him myself. I thought you wanted him to help you?"

"I am aware of that, but, my dear sir, this is an extremely delicate and
difficult business. As Mr. Penreath's professional adviser, I must beg
of you to exercise more reticence."

"Then I had better go and have my lunch while you two have a chat," said
Sir Henry urbanely, "or I shall only be putting my foot in it again. Mr.
Oakham, I shall see you before you go." Sir Henry moved off in the
direction of the luncheon room.

"Perhaps you will come to my sitting-room," said Colwyn to Mr. Oakham.
"We can talk quietly there."

"Thank you," responded Mr. Oakham, and he went with the detective
upstairs.

Mr. Oakham, of Oakham and Pendules, Temple Gardens, was a little
white-haired man of seventy, attired in the sombre black of the
Victorian era, with a polished reticent manner befitting the senior
partner of a firm of solicitors owning the most aristocratic practice in
England; a firm so eminently respectable that they never rendered a bill
of costs to a client until he was dead, when the amount of legal
expenses incurred during his lifetime was treated as a charge upon the
family estate, and deducted from the moneys accruing to the next heir,
who, in his turn, was allowed to run his allotted course without a bill
from Oakham and Pendules. They were a discreet and dignified firm, as
ancient as some of the names whose family secrets were locked away in
their office deed boxes, and were reputed to know more of the inner
history of the gentry in Burke's Peerage than all the rest of the legal
profession put together.

The arrest of the only son of Sir James Penreath, of Twelvetrees, Berks,
on a charge of murder, had shocked Mr. Oakham deeply. Divorces had come
his way in plenty, though he remembered the day when they were
considered scandalous in good families. But the modern generation had
changed all that, and Mr. Oakham had since listened to so many stories
of marital wrongs, and had assisted in obtaining so many orders for
restitution of conjugal rights, that he had come to regard divorce as
fashionable enough to be respectable. He was intimately versed in most
human failings and follies, and a past master in preventing their
consequences coming to light. Financial embarrassments he was well used
to--they might almost be said to be his forte--for many of his clients
had more lineage than money, but the crime of murder was a thing outside
his professional experience.

The upper classes of the present generation had, in this respect at
least, improved on the morals of their freebooting ancestors, and murder
had gone so completely out of fashion among the aristocracy that Mr.
Oakham had never been called upon to prepare the defence of a client
charged with killing a fellow creature. Mr. Oakham regarded murder as an
ungentlemanly crime. He believed that no gentleman would commit murder
unless he were mad. Since his arrival in Norfolk he had come to the
conclusion that young Penreath was not only mad, but that he had
committed the murder with which he stood charged. Sir Henry Durwood had
been responsible for the first opinion, and the police had helped him to
form the second. Two interviews he had had with his client since his
arrest had strengthened and deepened both convictions.

It was in this frame of mind that Mr. Oakham seated himself in the
detective's sitting room. He accepted a cigar from Colwyn's case, and
looked amiably at his companion, who waited for him to speak. The
interview had been of the solicitor's seeking, and it was for him to
disclose his object in doing so.

"This is a very unfortunate case, Mr. Colwyn," the solicitor remarked.

"Yes; it seems so," replied Colwyn.

"I am afraid there is not the slightest doubt that this unhappy young
man has committed this murder."

"You have arrived at that conclusion?"

"It is impossible to arrive at any other conclusion, in view of the
evidence."

"It is purely circumstantial. I thought that perhaps Penreath would have
some statement to make which would throw a different light on the case."

"I will be frank with you, Mr. Colwyn," said the solicitor. "You are
acquainted with all the facts of the case, and I hope you will be able
to help us. Penreath's attitude is a very strange one. Apparently he
does not apprehend the grave position in which he stands. I am forced to
the conclusion that he is suffering from an unhappy aberration of the
intellect, which has led to his committing this crime. His conduct since
coming to Norfolk has not been that of a sane man. He has hidden himself
away from his friends, and stayed here under a false name. I understand
that he behaved in an eccentric and violent way in the breakfast room of
this hotel on the morning of the day he left for the place where the
murder was subsequently committed."

"You have learnt this from Sir Henry, I presume?"

"Yes. Sir Henry has conveyed to me his opinion, based on his observation
of Mr. Penreath's eccentricity at the breakfast table the last morning
of his stay here, that Mr. Penreath is an epileptic, liable to attacks
of _furor epilepticus_--a phase of the disease which sometimes leads to
outbreaks of terrible violence. He thought it advisable that I should
know this at once, in view of what has happened since. Sir Henry
informed me that he confided a similar opinion to you, as you were
present at the time, and assisted him to convey Penreath upstairs. May I
ask what opinion you formed of his behaviour at the breakfast table, Mr.
Colwyn?"

"I thought he was excited--nothing more."

"But the violence, Mr. Colwyn! Sir Henry Durwood says Penreath was about
to commit a violent assault on the people at the next table when he
interfered."

"The violence was not apparent--to me," returned the detective, who did
not feel called upon to disclose his secret belief that Sir Henry had
acted hastily. "Apart from the excitement he displayed on this
particular morning, Penreath seemed to me a normal and average young
Englishman of his class. I certainly saw no signs of insanity about him.
It occurred to me at the time that his excitement might be the outcome
of shell-shock. We had had an air raid two nights before, and some
shell-shock cases are badly affected by air raids. I have since been
informed that Penreath was invalided out of the Army recently, suffering
from shell-shock."

"In Sir Henry's opinion the shell-shock has aggravated a tendency to the
disease."

"Has Penreath ever shown any previous signs of epilepsy?"

"Not so far as I am aware, but his mother developed the disease in later
years, and ultimately died from it. Her illness was a source of great
worry and anxiety to Sir James. And epilepsy is hereditary."

"Pathologists differ on that point. I know something of the disease, and
I doubt whether Penreath is an epileptic. He showed none of the symptoms
which I have always associated with epilepsy."

"An eminent specialist like Sir Henry is hardly likely to be mistaken.
The fact that Penreath seemed a sane and collected individual to your
eye proves nothing. Epileptic attacks are intermittent, and the sufferer
may appear quite sane between the attacks. Epilepsy is a remarkable
disease. A latent tendency to it may exist for years without those
nearest and dearest to the sufferer suspecting it, so Sir Henry says.
Penreath's case is a very strange and sad one."

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